Friends Forever
by The-Otaku-Fangirls
Summary: It was the end. I wasn't afraid of dying, actually I had accepted it. It meant that I would die side by side with my best friend. Alfred and Arthur meet on the battlefield briefly during the Revolutionary War. US/UK if you want to call it, so.


**Author's Note- **Well I am back, albiet grudgingly. Haha I'm kidding... By the way this is Em (Emalicia). Anyways **THIS **-points to the story down below- is my **first ever Hetalia **fanfic. So yeah sorry for the OOCness and what not. This was originally a story I had to do for English and so I had to stay up til 2 in the freakin' morning the past Sunday night. Gods know how crappy the rough draft was...-grumbles- Well it's US/UK if you wanna call it that...meh -shrugs- call it whatever, either way it still has England and America in there. So onward and read! Yeah!

Disclaimer- I do not own Hetalia. Hidezeka Himuraya...Himuriya... Dette is going to murder me for butchering his name. Oh well you get the point, Hetalia, America, and England belong to their respectful owner.

_Edit)_ Dette: -eye twitch- HI-MA-RU-YA, Em. You have much to learn.

Edit- Em: Oh yeah -sweat drops- Canada, Mathew Williams belongs to Hidezeka.

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><p><strong>Friends Forever<strong>

It seemed as if even the heavens were mourning the loss. That is, at least what I was thinking as I lay there, looking to the sky and simply letting the cold rain drops splatter and roll down my face.

After staying like this for a couple more moments, I turned my head to the side, allowing my eyes to alight upon the figure laying a couple of feet away. My gaze flickers over the figure's body, studying every aspect, before coming to settle on a pair of forest green orbs. I blink away the drops of rain that have accumulated on my lashes. Arthur Kirkland, British soldier, Loyalist to the Crown, was staring back; my long, lost, best friend…

We had been marching for what felt like ages. I was growing weary of looking at the same old identical shrubs and trees that we kept passing on each step of our journey. I let out a sigh. Sure I had been eager to sign up to help in the Revolution back when they had first started drafting. I had thought that I would be doing America proud, doing my family proud, but now that I look back, I almost wish I hadn't seemed so anxious. I let another sigh escape my lips.

"Growing tired already, eh Alfred?" I glance to my right, to where my fellow soldier and friend, Mathew Williams, is marching.

"Not tired, just bored of all this," I motion to the left side of the beaten trail we're marching on, towards the forest.

"Ah, I see. I too grow irksome of the greenery." He responds. He adjusts his pack, bringing it up higher on his shoulder, and we continue on with our conversation.

There is not much to day about Mathew Williams. He is a modest lad, who comes from a modest family and modest town in Pennsylvania. He doesn't speak much. He is about the same height, weight, and age as me. We were drafted the same year, 1776, a year ago, and that is about it.

A couple miles more of marching and we reached our destination. We settled in without a hitch. We pitched our tents and mingled with that troop that was already there. Everything was going well and smooth, that is until we got the orders, and then everything changed.

I dashed into my tent just as I heard the drums start up. I grabbed for my coat and musket and satchel. I quickly pulled on the coat, slinging my satchel across my shoulder, and attaching my bayonet to my musket, before running out and joining the others.

We gathered before our general, each dressed and armed similarly. Some of us looked shaken, but nonetheless we were ready; above us the clouds impregnated with the oncoming rain.

"Lads, we are about to go into battle," stated the general. "I expect you all to represent your country well. Fight 'til you cannot fight anymore." With that being said, he turned his horse and galloped off, us following. Our spirits had been boosted, however little did we know that this would soon become a nightmare.

We met the Brits on the front lines, instantly immersing ourselves into the heat of battle.

I lost track of time, of how many Redcoats I wounded or killed. Blasts of smoke from the cannons, cries of pain, sweat and blood, all blended together into a giant blur. When I realized where I was I had somehow ended up separated from the rest of comrades, deep in the forest.

All of a sudden, I heard a shot ring out, followed by a pained cry. I gathered my surroundings, pinpointing the direction from which I had heard the musket fire. I started to make my way through the tangles of branches, coming out into a clearing after a few yards. Before me, standing over a crumbled form, was a man. I decided to take a cautious step forward, towards him after a moment's hesitation. The first roll of thunder sounded overhead as I made my way over. As I got closer I noticed that his back was to me. I stopped a couple of feet away, lightning flashing and silhouetting his figure. I gasped as I finally made out the color of his coat. My initial reaction was to draw my loaded musket.

I guess he must have heard my gasp because as soon as I drew my musket, he had whirled around and was now facing me, tip of his bayonet glinting menacingly. We seemed to stand there, motionless, subconsciously sizing each other up. My eyes wandered up to his and I almost forgot how to breathe. There, standing right in front of me, ready to shoot at the slightest hint of movement of my part, was Kirkland, Arthur Kirkland.

Recognition flashes in his eyes and across his face before being quickly replaced by cold indifference.

I blinked disbelievingly. I-It couldn't be, could it? I had thought that after that day I would never get to see him again. I had thought that once he had boarded the boat with his family, which was heading for Great Britain, that that was going to be the last time I would see him ever.

Arthur and I, we had been inseparable. Since the time we were first introduced to the time when we had to say goodbye we were inseparable. People would often mistake us for brothers because we looked so much alike and because we spent so much time together. We would always get into heaps of trouble, yet we seemed to share the greatest times with each other. This sadly came to an end when we were both nine.

He had just celebrated his ninth birthday when his parents decided that they wanted to go back to Britain. I remember his devastation when he came and told me. The news practically destroyed our world. See his family wasn't from America. They had come over when he was only one. His parents had known mine, so in all kindness my parents helped them as best they could when they came here.

Over the years, after his departure the pain I had felt that day had slowly died down to a dull throb that only appeared when I thought about him. I thought of Arthur from time to time, wondering what his new life was like, what he was up to, thoughts like that.

I'm brought out of my reminiscing by the sound of him cocking his musket. I take a step back, my own musket at the ready.

"A-Arthur?" I breathe out.

"Alfred." My name falls coldly from his lips. I hear the click of the trigger, just as I feel a sharp, searing pain in my abdomen. I hear a grunt and then everything goes black.

I come to, to the feeling of soft pattering on my body. I try to sit up, but the sharp pain that rockets up my torso has me doing otherwise. I breathe out, sky flashing as the rain comes down harder. I stare up at the sky.

I know that I am going to die. I have come to accept it as quickly as I made certain of it. There is no point in trying to get back to camp, no point in even waiting for help.

I blink once, thinking that the heavens were truly mourning. I turn my head to the side, half expecting Arthur to be standing there, tip of his bayonet pointed down at me. What I see surprises me. Forest green orbs are staring back into my sky blue ones. I must have shot at Arthur at the moment he shot me. I don't ponder over it for long.

"Arthur."

"Alfred," this time when he speaks my name, I don't hear cold indifference but longing and regret. It is almost as is he regrets shooting me.

For the first time since the war started, I smile a true genuine smile.

_"'Friends forever?'"_

_"'The best.'"_

The barest hint of a smile flickers over his lips. My smile grows. As we both lay there dying, I can't help but think that what better a way to die, than side by side with your best friend.

Another flash of lightning illuminates our smiling faces and clasped hands.

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><p>And so we come to the end of the story. Very tragic, huh? Well R &amp; R please~ It would be greatly appreciated.<p>

Dette here, makin' an edit. I went back and fixed some of the names (Em, you forgot to replace some of the "Henry"s) and you just lost The Game. Also...hehe...about that GerIta...I'm workin' on it, I promise ^-^' But school has been...fneh. BUT DON'T WORRY! I shall provide thee with GerIta, because _**I**_ -dramatic pose- Dear fellow fangirls, I will never give you up...I will never let you down...and I will certainly never run around and desert you. I will never make you cry, or say goodbye...Or tell a lie and hurt you. -runs away before she gets beaten for Rick Rolling everyone-

Em: Yeah, yeah I know and thanks. Well you did miss one but I went back and fixed it. Also -points to fangirls reading this- I'm sorry about Dette making you lose The Game and Rick Rolling you.


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